Interesting thing about the English (maybe just ye olde Londoners) is how literal they can be. When you come across a converted warehouse apartment block on Southbank that is called “Sea Container House” you can be damn sure than 100 years ago, it was indeed a house for, well, sea containers.

So last night did infact involve fireworks. Real fireworks, the kind you can’t buy in Australia – even in Canberra. Jules (ex-housemate-now-London-expat) Sanders had acquired some and thought it a good idea to set them off in a park on our way to the tube station.

This involved jumping a tall, wet, very slippery fence around the park that had obviously been erected to keep out undesirable firework-launching hoodlums. After a bit of a tumble and torn jeans it successfully kept me out, but alas not the erstwhile Mr Sanders. They exploded at ground level after a failed launch and were damn impressive and even louder than you’d expect. Nice work. A thick pall of smoke covered the block and we evacuated rapidly.

So London remains as it was – expensive windy and wet. The flight was challenging and, despite various sleep inducements and 4 seats to myself, didn’t result in much sleep. The jet lag is fading now, though, and there’s adventure on the cards.